


the complication of memory

by espritneo



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Legends (2014)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, 00Q00 - Freeform, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Espionage, I will never find a more legitimate way to shoehorn Alec into Craig movies, JAQ - Freeform, M/M, Mission Fic, Movie-typical violence, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Skyfall, Pre-SPECTRE, with minor Spectre spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espritneo/pseuds/espritneo
Summary: The year is 2014 and Martin Odum is on the run from the US government for a crime he didn’t commit.In London, Mallory has his hands full with the pending MI5/MI6 merger.Meanwhile, Q and James discover everyone in MI6 has been lied to for over a decade. Alec Trevelyan, going by the name Martin, is alive and well, if a little shell-shocked by recent events. Together, the three men must deal with the ramifications of Martin’s situation and uncover who is willing to kill to ensure Martin never remembers his past.
Relationships: Current:, James Bond/Alec Trevelyan, James Bond/Martin Odum|Alec Trevelyan, James Bond/Q, James Bond/Q/Alec Trevelyan, James Bond/Q/Martin Odum|Alec Trevelyan, Past James Bond/Alec Trevelyan - Relationship, endgame:, for search purposes:
Comments: 33
Kudos: 30





	1. delete alec trevelyan

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains verbatim spoilers for S1 of Legends. Because it’s spoiler heavy, you don’t need to know what happens in Legends to understand the plot. There are spoilers for Spectre, but the story is set prior to events in the movie. Dates are fudged. 
> 
> References to, and descriptions of, real life persons and events in this fic cannot be used as educational material. No offense is ever meant in this unbetaed, fictional story.

Gareth Mallory considered himself to be a reasonable man; objective, far-seeing, considerate of the men and women under his command. Every day, he made decisions that tipped the scales in favor of his agents, and the people of England under their protection. Very rarely did he find himself having to choose between one agent and the rest of the agency.

007 didn't count; the man came with his own SOP.

Finding out that 006 was alive and wanted for the murder of the FBI director was an omnishamble of epic proportions. He poured three fingers of scotch and tipped the bottle at Bill Tanner questioningly.

His Chief of Staff nodded tiredly. "Sir, this is exactly what Denbigh needs to shut down the double-O programme."

"I'm aware, Tanner." Mallory passed a glass over and knocked his back in one gulp. He focused on the bite of good alcohol.

MI6 was in a very precarious state. The past two years, his focus had split on putting out internal and external fires. Internally, he spearheaded efforts on recruiting and training agents and staff to replace those lost at the bombing. They did a complete administrative overhaul to cut the fat and redistribute responsibilities so that no branch head worked alone. They physically relocated and spent months installing security measures to Q's satisfaction.

Externally, he dealt with the Intelligence and Security Committee continuing to disseminate his and his predecessor's mission directives. He fought against, and lost, the proposal to merge SIS's -5 and -6 branches into a new entity under Director-General Max Denbigh, codenamed C. And now, he had weeks before Denbigh was in a position to undermine MI6.

Everybody knew Denbigh hated the double-O programme. A man more suited to politics and backroom dealing than the necessary dirty work, C was the unsavory version of their Quartermaster, a child of the digital age and the father of his own insidious counterintelligence software. Unlike Q, C had no qualms spying on people, regardless of their innocence, and using the information for his own benefit. Give him an inch, and he'd cut MI6 at the knees in favor of promoting his digital spy software.

"Let's go over what we know." He rubbed his forehead.

"Yes, sir. We received a call from a Nelson Gates via our FBI liason an hour ago. He was asking about Trevelyan's alias John Cameron and asking if we could give him asylum. He revealed that Trevelyan has been under witness protection in America for the past ten years as Martin Odum."

"Who the devil authorized that?"

Tanner shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know, sir. If anyone did, it would be our predecessors and mine didn't leave any records or give me any hint that 006 was still alive."

"Nor did she." Mallory rubbed his temple, torn. "Go on, then."

"Around the same time, we received intel that a man looking remarkably like Trevelyan sent a video to US agencies confessing to the murder of FBI director Del Barrett under his current alias. We've checked and Odum is currently on the government's most wanted list."

A rogue agent reappearing after extended sleep and threatening US-UK relations was a situation that just begged for Denbigh to swoop in and spin around to demonstrate just how unreliable human assets were. M could already picture Denbigh's argument: computers and artificial technology was infinitely more tractable and major sources of error could be headed off before the software was even developed. The prime minister would lap it up in a heartbeat. Everyone at Whitehall knew how little she thought of conventional counterintelligence techniques: antiquated, irrelevant, a black hole for funding.

She just needed one good push and Trevelyan's American disaster fit the bill.

He summarized his thoughts out loud, and made a grim determination.

"Call the Quartermaster in, Tanner, and quickly. We'll head this off at the pass."

\---

In his office, Q was wrapping up an enjoyable lunch hour.

He checked his appearance in the mirror as he did up his tie, smirking when he caught James' reflection.

James, unperturbed in his disheveled clothing, bit him lightly on the neck. His teeth scraped as he slowly bit down and Q shivered with pleasure.

Q mentally told his cock to stop twitching and arched back into large hands sneaking over his hipbones. He rewarded James with an idle head scratch.

"No time for round three, I'm afraid," he finally said. James licked the redness and blew lightly.

"You underestimate my efficiency." He rumbled.

Laughing, Q pushed him away. "That was _not_ a challenge, 007." He half-scolded. "Do your trousers up and button your shirt."

To James' apparent delight, his gaze strayed over golden skin and toned muscles on display.

"You could do it for me." James invited.

Splendid idea. Q ran his hands over James' front, teasing his sated cock through the fabric. James didn't even twitch and he grinned inside. Mousy quartermaster wearing out the insatiable 007.

James still leaned in and cupped his neck between his palms, enjoying the touch.

 _Hedonist_.

The phone rang, shattering the moment.

Q was at his desk in a fraction of a thought.

"Q here."

"It's Tanner. Urgent meeting with M if you can get away."

Q lamented the lost opportunity. James, now fully presentable, pressed his mouth to Q's temple in farewell. He smiled up at his partner and donned his quartermaster persona. "Of course, Tanner. I'll be up in ten."

\--

"Have a seat, quartermaster, I'll brief you quickly." M gestured across the desk. Q's sharp eyes caught the presence of recently used glass tumblers hastily set to one side as he swept the room. Before him, the normally prim and put-together head of Mission branch looked frazzled. Q got a very, very bad feeling this meeting was about to go sideways.

He gingerly perched on the leather upholstered chair, ramrod straight. Being in M's perpetually straight-backed presence always made him mind his posture. M leaned forward and clasped his hands.

"Q, this discussion is to be treated with the utmost secrecy. I need you to search our databases and company machines and erase anything that mentions former 006, Alec Trevelyan. Scrub him entirely, do you understand? He cannot exist."

"Sir," Q protested. "You're asking me to manipulate decades of records. Have you considered how much damage this will do?"

"Absolutely. And the rationale remains more important than the outcome."

"Which is? I can't, in good conscience, follow this directive without being read in."

M shook his head. "Sorry, Q. It's classified."

Q creased his forehead incredulously. "I have one of the highest security clearances in the agency!"

"This is a time-sensitive situation, Q. Can I count on you?"

Q, having realized it was a losing battle, was already planning ahead. M's evasive statements didn't sit well with him, but he kept his thoughts well away from his face. "Of course, M. Right away." He'd do what M asked, but he'd make his own contingency plans, ta very much.

The older man seemed to deflate with a tad bit of relief and dismissed him. Q hurried out of the office and back to his computer, hands trembling with nerves. He opened a drawer and rifled about for the box of spare USB drives, selecting one in particular and connecting it to his computer.

He was going need to send James a message. Something subtle that abided by the system they'd agreed upon months ago. The phrase he chose signaled that he needed to talk in an unknown and entirely secure location. James' job would be to find a suitable place and message back with a time and place. They wouldn't see each other until the meeting, but there was no way around it. Q's plans would keep him occupied for many hours yet.

He wrote an algorithm that created all possible combinations of his search terms and embedded it in a script he sent out into MI6's internal network. The script would identify records and documents containing Trevelyan's information, duplicate the files and transfer the copy to the USB drive before permanently deleting them. He then sent out an agency-wide memo of a system update that required all machines to be connected and left powered on overnight.

He left his office to make a cup of tea, mind still whirring. He wondered if M's shifty behavior would have registered had he not _known_ who Alec was. Ten years was a long time and when Alec died, he had been months from finishing his postgrad in Computational Statistics and Machine Learning. After that, he'd rotated through TSS's various divisions over the span of five years before his promotion to R in 2010. The first time he'd looked at double-O files was two years later, upon his promotion to Q.

Then James had become important to him. Q couldn't say when they two had fallen into something approximating a relationship, but what they had was a comfort and a haven away from their honed edges. Q had and would do anything in his very considerable power to protect that and those he valued and in the process of understanding James Bond, it had become very necessary to get acquainted with the story of Alec Trevelyan, James' former partner and best friend.

James held a double standard when it came to discussing Alec. The agent was free in sharing impersonal information, and in the process of getting to know each other, he often dropped stories involving Alec and their mischief. As Q understood it, Alec had occupied an inherent part of James' existence since SBS. So, in some sense, Q knew Alec the agent very well.

Just as telling, however, were all the things James never said. James never discussed their promotions to double-O status or Alec's fatal first mission as 006. For a man inured to discussing sex, there was an Alec-shaped blank in his bedroom stories. He suspected, but couldn't confirm, that Alec's death left deeply buried hole. James wasn't crippled; the man didn't even take bereavement leave. His success rate held ground as he transitioned from field agent, but arguably his decision-making skills in the relationship arena left much to be desired. Within two years, he bulldozed his way into the disaster that was Vesper Lynd and after that affair, James Bond was never associated with a long-term relationship again.

Until Q.

Still lost in thought, he made his way back to his office, nodding a cordial greeting to his techs as he passed. He checked on the Trevelyan script, then spent a few hours skimming updates from double-Os on Quantum clean-up. After Silva's invasion, he and M had taken a good hard look at the former quartermaster's work and found that after Bond discovered Quantum and eliminated Greene's Bolivia operation, any effort to pursue the remaining members of Quantum had been abandoned. In the six years that passed, Quantum had grown in other, less conspicuous ways and one of them - Silva - had come back and bitten MI6 in the arse.

Two years later, Q was still finding branch after branch. Quantum was a many-headed serpent that refused to die quietly.

"Working late tonight, Q?" A voice cut in on his fifth (sixth?) trip to the kettle.

"Oh! Hello, Walsh." Q registered the soldier in army fatigues and checked his watch in surprise.

Howard Walsh was the night security typically assigned to the levels that required 24-hour operation. Medical, for example. And Q-branch.

"Too many operatives overseas, Walsh. It'll be the couch for me, tonight."

"God bless you, quartermaster." The soldier murmured respectfully.

"Just doing my job," Q corrected kindly.

"And Mr. Bond's out in the field?" The guard guessed knowingly. Q was quick to correct his mistake, although, when Walsh flushed, he was too proper to display his glee.

"Sorry for stepping out of line, sir. I'm just surprised he's not here."

"Bond's aware I have responsibilities." He felt a mixed bag of admiration and consternation for the guard's observation skills.

The guard finally dropped the subject, looking suitably chastened. "Spare a moment for some rest, sir." He nodded in parting.

Walsh did have a point. Q stifled a yawn. The guard had bumped into him at three am, which meant he'd been awake for 21 hours. The tea in his hand was more to keep his senses occupied than for its caffeinated properties.

His phone chimed.

 **James Bond** : still awake?

Q turned and scowled at Walsh's back. _Tattletale_.

He tapped back: napping, mother.

Bond didn't reply and Q pictured his quiet crinkly laugh, the image warming him all over. He abandoned his tea on the desk and stretched out on the leather sofa, settling in for a nice nap.

He had to focus on the little things. Tomorrow was time aplenty to meet James at a safehouse and break the news.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time, M made a drastic call and disavowed Alec Trevelyan, who isn't quite as dead as they've been lead to believe.

Chapter 2

James left him instructions to meet him at a safehouse in Tang Hall. Q kept himself busy with his laptop on the train ride, opting to work in line code to avoid drawing attention. He was just another hipster computer nerd tied to his technology, whilst on invisible wires, cameras mysteriously blacked out as his train car entered their proximity. He was too well trained to fiddle with the USB drive around his neck, hanging on a strip of leather and disguised as St. Christopher's medallion. But the temptation was there, crawling under his fingertips.

The knowledge he wanted to share with James was a heavy burden. Would his partner be angry? Upset? Was he going to need damage control? Q didn't like the odds. James was unpredictable at the best of times and here he was, poised to deliver the most devastating news he could imagine.

James opened the flat immediately and ushered him inside. "I can't stay more than the day," he said apologetically. "M's sending me to Latvia. You should get the mission details soon."

Q started setting up his laptop and generating a building-wide black out with sparse replication radiating outward to diffuse their presence. "I want you to sit down, 007."

James obeyed, wary. Q took a stabilizing breath and looked him in the eye. "Alec Trevelyan is in play." He quickly sat on James when the agent jolted forward. James' eyes, wild and blue, roved his face. "M has asked me to remove all traces of his existence from MI6 servers." He rode out James' impulse to throw him off and pace off the sudden adrenaline. He continued, unruffled, forcing James to process. "I downloaded everything before I did what he asked." He pulled out the necklace and James focused on it. "It also has everything I could gather with facial recognition."

"What did you find?"

"I haven't looked. The data transfer took priority." Q looked at him, gauging his stability. He slowly stood, removing the usb, and plugged it in. He skimmed the file directories and decided to begin with the most recent, among which was a large video file.

He double clicked.

Alec Trevelyan's voice filled the room. "My name is Martin Odum. My name used to be John Cameron. I'm a covert operative in the FBI. Tonight I claim responsibility for the killing of FBI director Del Bennett. He was an enemy to this country."

They listened in disbelief.

"You'll call me crazy. You'll try to discredit me. But you'll not silence me. I pulled the trigger knowing what I was doing. I did it to stop us all from going off a cliff..."

\--

It was numbing, digging through ten years of Martin Odum's history and piecing the puzzle.

Alec Trevelyan had been a casualty of an air missile strike in Iraq ten years ago, one of over 400 men killed. But somehow, he emerged in the United States as Martin Odum. Their likeness was unmistakable, as was Odum's talent for deep cover FBI missions. The list of aliases in his FBI record was nearly as long as his list at MI6. Odum had been very busy, very successful, and as equally frowned upon by FBI's psychiatrists.

James had absolutely no doubt.

This man was Alec and nothing made sense. His questions were growing. None of the pieces added up and Odum's recent behavior failed to shed light on the situation. Odum apparently begun to go rogue in August, intermittently appearing around unsanctioned murders that spanned the United States and ending with a sniper bullet murdering the Director of the FBI.

"We know two things, James," Q said grimly. "Alec is alive and he might be in trouble."

"We know he couldn't be bothered to come home," James snapped. "How do we know he's in trouble. He could be exactly where he planned to be."

"Think, 007!" Q had no patience for a pity party. "He's lied low for a decade. Why is he he suddenly on the US government's most wanted list? It strikes atypical. And what's the connection between the first three murders?"

"He has a wife and son." James muttered sullenly, avoiding Q's glare.

"Stop thinking with your prick." Q tried a combination of search terms to isolate anything new. "You can ask him about all that when you see him."

James reared back. "When _I_ see him?" He parroted. "I have a mission."

"In Latvia, investigating a potential Russian mole, yes, I know. You'll be finished in a week and you're known for disappearing afterwards. I'll use facial tracking software to find wherever he's gone to ground and send you his way. We must be discreet, James. M ordered me to erase a double-O from existence for classified reasons. If he finds out, he may not forgive us."

"If Alec isn't in trouble, I'll punch his lights out." James vowed. "If he is in trouble..."

"There's no place else you'd rather be." Q finished with certainty. "We'll get to the bottom of this, James. I promise. And we'll go from there."

\--

Over the next several days, Q did his work as normally as possible. He had a great deal of leeway at MI6. M could have required him to report back after scrubbing Trevelyan's records, but thus far, he hadn't said a word.

Now all he had to do was keep it up. M couldn't suspect anything was amiss at Q-branch. Finding and possibly helping Alec was dependent on remaining inconspicuous amongst spies.

Facial recognition software retraced Alec's journey from Washington, DC. Using false identification, he flew from the United States to Georgia and meandered his way towards Portugal, before criss-crossing haphazardly around the EU. It wasn't readily apparent, but despite switching directions often, Alec was heading northwest, straight for England.

There was a knock on the door, startling Q out of his thoughts.

Tanner popped his head in.

Q hoped the expression on his face was normal. Then winced at the thought because that was a surefire give-away. If only Tanner didn't make him so nervous...

Tanner had been a sure candidate for a double-O position, rejected only because of a genetic condition. Unlike M or Moneypenny, he'd _had_ the same training, passed the same tests, and was a double-O in all but designation, making him an excellent Chief of Staff.

Tanner was the last person he needed visiting him.

"Busy, Q?" The chief of staff lifted his lips in an affable smile. Sometimes, Q resented Tanner's ability to look so unassuming.

"Never a dull day's work, Bill," Q kept his return smile small, to avoid being accused to hiding his feelings. He knew the reputation they had down in Q-branch - cold and unfeeling automatons, agents whispered, though none of them had ever set foot in their office. Tanner knew better, but would forgive him for playing the part.

"Spencer and Wright are in Portugal at the moment, aren't they? How is that going?"

"I can tell you when the check-in in..." Q checked his watch. "Thirty minutes. However, as you're aware, two of the bombers were Iraqi. Peter's team has the INIS tech recovered in Paris and they're extracting the data."

"Listen, Q," Tanner shuffled and knocked his knuckles on the desk. "M hasn't disclosed your meeting, but I think I know you pretty well by now. Anything you'd want to discuss?"

Q fiercely wanted to lay on Tanner and tell him _exactly_ what he thought of their insane and frankly, _unethical_ , plan. He instantly tamped down on the urge. He and James had constructed a charade and he had to stick to it.

"I can't discuss something when I don't have all the facts," Q smiled blandly, careful to hide his teeth. "M is asking for my trust and with our history, he gets the benefit of the doubt." He pretended to eye Tanner carefully. "Do you have reservations?" He asked innocently.

Tanner, damn the man, easily shook his head. "It's a difficult situation that we're in; we can trust that M is doing the best he can."

"Of course." Q lied agreeably. "I'm willing to wait until it's safe to know more." He let his voice harden, " _with_ the understanding that I'll be read in _very, very soon._ "

If Tanner heard the threat, he gave nothing away. "It's only right, Q. I'll ensure it, if M needs reminding." He assured, as if he needed to remind Q that they three men held a delicate balance of power.

Tanner gave him one last smile and left.

As soon as the door closed, Q sagged in relief.

The computer dinged insistently.

Q turned on his earwig and opened the channel. "Agents, you are live. Situation report, please. How is Portugal?"

\--

Latvia was boring as fuck. Bond didn't know whether to laugh or cry. In the forced silence, hysteria bubbled under his cultivated control.

Fucking Alec. _(Focus on the mission, James)_

Bloody betrayer. Couldn't do him a service and stay fucking dead.

Ten bloody years. How dare he? He'd mourned the fucker. He went as close to Basra as he could before the air pollution forced him back. He'd taken over leaving flowers at the senior Trevelyans' graves.

Alec was supposed to be on the list, in the past with all his other heartaches.

His parents. Alec. Vesper. M. It was a good list: Clean. Orderly. Memorable.

_(Take a shot, James.)_

He splashed vodka into a shot glass, missed, and pulled from the bottle instead. The liquor chilled his throat going down, freezing his thoughts back into blessed silence.

He had a mission.

His alias was a Canadian general visiting Lielvārde air base. Lielvārde was in the last stages of approving renovation plans designed to accomodate a Canada-led NATO battalion. It was a vulnerable stage and NATO heard rumors of a mole selling base secrets to Russian FSB.

NATO had important plans for Lielvārde if they insisted on sending a double-O. It wasn't his business, but Bond filed the tidbit away.

From the moment he'd arrived, each day and evening passed with military punctuality.

He spent his day attending meetings with Latvian officials and construction representatives. He'd found a suspect easily enough: Armīns Jansons, chief of the construction company contracted by the Lielvārde air force base. Jansons had access to the base's blueprints and regularly attended meetings with base administration to discuss expected structural and functional changes. It was no trouble slipping a tracker on Jansons every time the chief was on base.

After the day's meetings, he excused himself with imaginary reports to Lieutenant-General Hainse of the _armee canadienne_. He would then spend the next few hours remotely trailing Janson's tracker. Soon after, a noncommissioned officer would fetch him from his tiny assigned quarters for a few hours of supper with Graube.

This left James with plenty of free time in a confined space, a rarity since his tenure as a sailor and marine operative. Back then, he'd had Alec for most of it and free time meant looking for mischief, booze, or privacy. Or all of the above.

Naturally, he had alcohol. Quality vodka appropriate for a general to drink in his comfortable quarters. But a general didn't go looking around for sex. And so neither could he, not until the mission was over.

This would be easier if he had Q in his ear.

But M and Tanner had determined it was too risky to fit him with an earwig. The alias required 24-hour immersion and privacy wasn't guaranteed on base. Intellectually, Bond knew it was the right call. Privately, he resented the boredom and the absence of his usual diversions.

He needed a fucking distraction or he'd start thinking beyond the mission. Of Alec dead but alive, living in bloody America for ten years without so much as a by your leave. With a _wife_. Remembering made him nauseous and jealousy, the ugly, possessive beast that guarded his most precious people, reared its head while Bond remained sober.

Getting pissed was always the solution to all of his problems - _bloody hands, dead women_ \- that and

Fucking ( _no one to fuck_ )

Or fighting ( _can't compromise the mission_ )

So he drank himself into a stupor as quickly as possible and had fitful dreams he never remembered in the morning.

He quickly found a pattern in Jansons' movements. Not too easy a task: Jansons had the common sense to do his job 90 percent of the time. But occasionally, he would turn left instead of right and linger outside certain offices. Bond suspected he was biding his time.

Well, he wasn't having that. No double-O enjoyed waiting, and he needed his mission done yesterday so he could find Alec and batter his belly good. Or fuck him proper. He wasn't particular. 

During dinners with Graube, they discussed future plans for the base and the best way to integrate a multinational battalion. Periodically, Bond dropped questions on weapons and personnel. He'd lead the conversation towards Latvia's military and political landscape. Graube liked him and after three or four drinks, he was full of advice.

Very specific advice tailored to every individual that would interact with the real Canadian battalion commander.

So he dug deeper.

Slowly, he built up a mental database. The chief was targeting the Lt. General's office, where he kept hard copies of dossiers on high-ranking officials in the Latvian military and its NATO allies. Jansons was also interested in the supply management and personnel offices.

Base blueprints, present and future.

Total weapons inventory.

Personnel.

Pressure points of Latvians in positions of power.

If he succeeded in smuggling this information to his contact, the FSB would have two advantages. Lielvārde and any NATO programs would be indefinitely vulnerable to Russian military attack. With Graube's dossiers, they also had valuable information for bribing or blackmailing government and military officials.

On the fourth night, Bond was eager to make a move. His gut told him the time was coming. He had a decision to make. Should he wait for Jansons to make his move? Or should he take a chance and smuggle the construction chief out of the base and down to station R? His directives from MI6 were simple as neither they nor NATO had any reason to suspect the mole would be of longterm use.

Bond, though, wondered if Jansons knew his Russian contact. What were the chances he communicated via dead drop?

Pretty high, he assessed. He was on edge. He wanted a fight, a reason to make this mission more involved than it needed to be.

The next time Jansons was on base, he kept his usual routine. But once he was back in his quarters, he changed into black clothing and slipped through the base to intercept Jansons route towards Graube's office. He hid behind generators and watched the construction chief inspect the locks on the door and make a rudimentary attempt at picking the lock. After a few tries, Jansons continued walking as if nothing happened. Bond stuck to the shadows between tents and near the outskirts, struck out and pulled Jansons into the dark corner. A swift hand movement and the construction worker crumpled to the gravel, bleeding from a wide gash across the neck.

James' mission was complete.

\---

Seven days after James flew to Latvia, he received an encrypted communique from station R reporting 007 completed his mission successfully and would contact him from an internal line in approximately three hours.

He had several missions in progress and he really shouldn't be prioritizing 007's final check-in, but fuck if he couldn't make minor miracles happen. A part of him wanted to hear James' voice, pinpoint his frame of mind before sending him to Alec's current position.

He rationalized it was necessary for passing on relevant information.

James sounded utterly bored - _dangerous,_ he thought. He needed to send 007 on before he found trouble. James needed a purpose. He was primed and ready to act.

"007 reporting target has been identified and eliminated."

"Much appreciated, 007," he let the words flow automatically as he thought of the best way to deliver his message. "And a job well done. I noticed a lack of chaos and explosion this time around."

"Oh? Do I get a perk next time?" James crowded the mouthpiece and Q willed his cheeks to remain pale and unblemished.

They had a perks and punishments system that guided upcoming scenes and damn the man for using his ennui to draw attention to it.

"Perhaps," he deliberately paused, pretending to think. He dropped his voice, "I think that a 48.35 by 23.56 interaction is perfectly likely."

"Q, I'm happy to engineer a way to make it a reality." James purred.

"I'll send you a few ideas," Q grinned, imagining someone replaying this conversation turning completely red in mortification.

He was having far too much fun.

James chuckled. "Station R will deliver the results of my interview via courier. Don't bother with a return flight. I'll see you soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lielvārde Air Base is one of Latvia's military bases, and is actually in the process of accomodating a Canadian-led NATO batallion.
> 
> Station R - MI6 did have a station in Riga in the 1900s before WWII. On a website I'm reluctant to revisit, there is mention that MI6 agents were, once again, stationed in Riga 1990s. I reactivated it for the purposes of this story.


	3. we'll meet in paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time, James completed a mission in Latvia while Q held down the fort and searched the world for Alec.

Chapter 3

James, dressed inconspiciously in jeans and winter wear, stood outside a nondescript brick building in the public housing arrondissment. Q's clues had been clear and simple to parse, betraying his computer programming mindset, but James had no complaints, so long as Q didn't try playing spy without him.

Q's facial recognition software had narrowed Alec's location down to the building, but it was up to James to find the flat.

He loped around the neighborhood a few times, ducking into the corner grocer and the local off-license under the pretense of being a self-employed English travel blogger. The family operating the grocer didn't look surprised to see someone of his ilk and confirmed that another Englishman had been by in the past 72 hours. They must be together, the girl manning the counter chattered innocently. Their accents were excellent, had they been to Paris before?

The skinny bearded man operating the off-license just squinted at James and told him he looked a bit familiar. Did he have a brother that liked bourbon?

No sign of Alec, though. The last time the off-license saw him had been a good twelve hours.

James wondered if he was watching from his rented flat. Would he try to escape?

The thought spurred him into action. He didn't like the situation at all and wasn't that a kicker? When had he gotten reliant on Q's voice in his ear to act as a sounding board?

He rang several names on the building, doing it annoyingly until someone yelled through the intercom in French.

"Sorry!" He apologized in in fluent French, making sure to sound appropriately chastised. "My brother's forgotten to leave me the key again and he's passed out drunk."

The tenant on the other end spat out an invective, but the heavy wrought-iron security gate unlatched with a quiet buzz.

The maintenance office, where James guessed the landlords kept the tenant work orders, was shut tight without any light shining under the door.

James picked the lock and slipped inside. No computer; just a filing cabinet and a desk, both rarely used. James felt a little disgruntled. At least a computer could have done half his work for him. He opened the top drawer and flipped through the files.

Twenty minutes later, he found the latest key order. Number 407, submitted four days ago. He erased all traces of his presence and locked the door behind him. The apartment had a rickety elevator, but his gut and his jittery nerves encouraged him to take the stairs instead.

James rapped on the door to 407.

Predictably, there was no answer.

He took out his lockpick set and worked the tumbler. He knocked again as he turned the knob.

He called out their code phrase, holding the door open by an inch.

More silence.

James' brow creased. He quietly armed himself and crouched low, settling himself on the balls of his feet, and finally gave the door a light shove. He paused long enough to gauge clearance and rolled into the apartment. You never could be too careful with Alec. Man had an itchy trigger finger and a penchant for shooting first, asking questions later.

"Are you always this dramatic, or is it saved for breaking and entering?"

"Is that all you've got to say to an old friend?" James grinned up at the barrel pointed between his eyes.

"I know my friends." Alec stared dispassionately. He looked a lot worn in his ratted zip up hoody and jeans. "You're not one of them."

"That hurts," James quipped. "Is that why you ran off to America?"

Alec worked his jaw and clicked the safety on. "Who are you?"

"Bond. James Bond. Bloody bastard when you like me. Stubborn arse when I pissed you off."

"You're crazy." Alec shook his head, gaze unwavering. "Or suicidal, smiling with a gun in your face."

James continued to smile even as alarms rattled in the back of his mind.

Alec wasn't playing ignorant. He was dead serious, treating the situation as first contact with an unknown party: confident, assessing, ready to retaliate. His behavior was unnatural on so many levels. They'd had a decade of history, he and Alec, before he died. In that entire time, no matter how stinking mad they were at each other, there was always trust.

Well, best not play his hand yet.

"Or I'm pleased as punch to see you, seeing as you're supposed to be dead."

"Alright. Who am I, then? What's my name?"

James took a second to parse out his tone. He wasn't confused or curious. Rather, resignation and bitterness colored his question.

Alec expected to him to lie.

James ignored the sharp hurt in favor of careful analysis. Should he tell him about MI6? No harm, he decided. Odum had been FBI. He'd enjoyed certain security clearance. "Alec Trevelyan, formerly Agent 006 of MI6." He braced himself at the sudden fire in Alec's eyes and caught the man as Alec shoved him against the wall, turning the tables and pinning him by the collar.

"Go on." Alec snarled.

"You died on a deep cover mission in Iraq. That's what we all thought. Until Q found out you've been hiding in America. So let me ask you: what the bloody hell, Alec?" He shoved him away.

Alec slowly turned over and slumped back. They sized each other up.

"Are you MI6, too?"

"Yes. How much do you remember?" James added: "You weren't surprised to hear about MI6."

"I was recently informed my name is John Cameron, MI6 agent. I don't remember anything before spring 2004. I don't know Alec Trevelyan, but it's the first name that's felt right." Alec hesitated and James held his breath. Would Alec trust him?

"They told me I was in a car accident. I was in a coma and when I woke up, I had a wife and a job I couldn't remember."

"And now?"

"I've been doing some digging, tracking people down. Got tracked down, myself. I found out I was in Iraq working for Verax." Alec pushed his left sleeve up and traced a line down the inside of his forearm. "I think that was my mission from MI6. I was caught by Jason Shaw, head of Verax, and interrogated. One night, oil worker helped me escape and I used the camp radio to call down an airstrike. Those missiles destroyed the compound, including the oil rigs and Saddam's WMDs. I don't remember anything after that. Somehow, my wife, Sonya, and my DCO supervisor, Nelson Gates, put me under witness protection in California. I've been Martin Odum ever since."

_Amnesia_ , Bond thought clinically, already slipping into his training and suppressing old grief.

Ten years ago, he'd mourned Alec and moved on as best he knew; right now, this was not a situation where he could allow his past to control him. The man standing before him moved like Alec, talked like Alec, was his partner in every sense except the most critical: he didn't trust James like breathing.

That made him a wildcard.

"Who ordered the witness protection?"

"I don't know," Alec scowled. "It's classified. I couldn't find anyone to tell me." His expression cleared. "Can you get me to MI6?"

"Not a good idea." James shook his head, thinking of M. "It's a long story and I could use a sit down; I've been on the road for hours. Got anything to drink?"

"Sure. Bourbon or beer?"

\--

"M, here are today's mission reports." Tanner put a stack of neatly bound books on the mahogany desk. M set his cup of tea aside and flipped through the first few pages of each file. Currently, seven field agents and all double-Os were deployed in various parts of the world. In addition to rooting out the remaining arms of Quantum, he had agents on criminal paper trails in the aftermath of the Charlie Hebdo bombing and the Germanwings plane crash.

Bond was in Latvia investigating a suspected Russian mole targeting the upcoming joint Latvian-NATO base. He was due for a return or a check-in and M suddenly prioritized his report.

The file was sparse, as expected.

Until he reached the end.

"Bond is supposed to be on a plane back," M told Tanner suspiciously. "Why isn't there a real report on Latvia?"

Tanner cleared his throat and M braced himself for his best agent's usual antics. "Bond is still dark. He initiated exfil and his final check in, however, he refused an earwig from station R. Q is expecting his report via courier within the next 24 hours."

"For once in the man's life, can't he pretend to respect his superiors?" Mallory complained, forcefully throwing his pen point down on the desk calendar.

It failed to penetrate the paper and he found himself irrationally irritable.

His Chief of Staff shrugged his shoulders with _laissez faire_ attitude. "Sir, we've had decades to get used to Bond's decompression routine." Tanner sounded sympathetic. "As unorthodox as his methods may be, he has the shortest turnaround. Most agents need a good two weeks to regain their perspective to Psych's satisfaction."

"Bond still fails the psych evals." M pointed out sardonically.

"Quite, however, they do calibrate their final report to account for his...recalcitrant personality."

"Tanner, do you think it's wise to encourage such piss poor attitude in agents?" Mallory once again found himself voicing a question he'd spent two years mulling over. Army discipline found the concept distasteful. Her Majesty's Service drilled respect and automatic obedience into soldiers for efficiency and their own safety. A regiment without these values to form a solid backbone were usually the first to fall, either due to their own stupidity or their inability to think of the soldier next to them.

The administrator in him found agents with Bond's insolence to be weak points in the agency. He knew that his opponents also thought the same way and therein lay his dilemma, from two vastly different perspectives.

"On or off the record, sir?"

M considered. "Off record, Tanner." He opened a hidden compartment and pressed a series of buttons. "There, I turned off audio and visual monitoring. You've worked here a very long time and our division of power is an appropriate reflection of our experiences within the agency."

Ms were never chosen from the ranks. Their purpose was to provide an outsider perspective over an inherently powerful agency with many secrets. In return for M's allegiance and secrecy, MI6 granted the individual with complete oversight, overridden only by the joint efforts of Chief of Staff and Quartermaster.

The Chief of Staff, on the other hand, was always an individual that paid their dues, so to speak, and spent considerable time in the field.

William Tanner was an excellent example: Tanner had joined as a junior agent and naturally went through the paces towards promotion to senior field agent, and eventually, consideration for the double-O programme. Everyone knew he wouldn't be accepted due to a genetic anomaly, but they also knew that the former M had offered Tanner eventual posting as Chief of Staff if he agreed to undergo double-O training and testing.

"If there's ever a time where your experience is vastly superior to mine, it would be now." Mallory concluded.

Tanner let himself get comfortable in a leather backed visitor's chair.

"Depending on their strengths, agents in espionage are under duress on a regular, frequent or perpetual basis. We sort out individuals that demonstrate independent thinking and a drive for self-preservation. These are not values that align with any other branch of Her Majesty's service. But for the sake of their survival, it is imperative that they trust their instincts and they can make their own risk-reward assessments."

Mallory reluctantly acknowledged the value in this.

Tanner continued with a wry twist of the lips, "Agents eventually stand out from the rest of society, either by dint of their missions and leading to methods of dissociation and coping, or the very characteristics that make them ideal for espionage are put into practice so regularly they can no longer be hidden under the polite veneer of society."

M got the impression he was being chastened and he hid a smile of amusement.

"In other words, Tanner, discouraging agents from expressing insolence, or more precisely, refusing to permit critical thinking would be spitting in the face of their training."

"I wouldn't put it so colorfully, but quite, M." Tanner relaxed and granted the older man a bland, pleased smile.

"Alright, consider myself schooled, Chief of Staff. Do me a favor and don't let it slip to the agents. I believe I'll hold the upper hand if they keep thinking I'm someone to circumvent."


	4. I've got a blood buzz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter! My way of contributing to international fanworks day. I will post later this week as usual.
> 
> Last time: James and Alec met after a decade apart.

Chapter 4

His heart did complicated things around James Bond.

Paulanos had it all wrong; Martin wasn't a romantic, as nice as the idea was in his head. _Sonya_ had made him out to be this dreamer, with her imaginary wedding in Malibu and the Easter proposal that that never happened. He never could remember her stories because they felt so contrived. Romance wasn't innate; Martin always put work before relationships. He put more energy into perfecting his cover and felt more invested in making sure he survived his assignments than puzzling out why his marriage had gone stale. And it wasn't for lack of _feelings_. He'd loved his wife, Sonya, and he loved his son, Aiden, fiercely with every fiber in his body. Love just wasn't enough to be a family man.

That said, Martin did have the self-awareness to recognize he was a soft touch for certain types. Children. Women to protect. The CIs that risked their lives in his name. Friends. He was expressive and he was demonstrative. His first inclination was to draw the other person closer instead of pushing them away. And right now, he had the urge to reach out and clasp Bond by the arm, pull the man in for a really long, much-needed hug.

Seemed they really were friends, then. But, people changed in ten years and he'd be a fool to assume Bond was still a man he'd want as an ally.

So he kept his mouth shut and his hands busy finding the liquor and a spare glass.

Bond's face did something complicated when he spied the bourbon, lips pursed grimly, and rudely knocked his first shot back.

Trevelyan must have had opposite preferences. Well, he'd been a bourbon drinker for a decade -

 _Are you, Martin? Who planted that idea in your head?_ He ignored the whisper, along with the memory of Crystal's dry _I thought you hated vodka_ and his deflective _I guess you don't know me as well as you thought_.

\- and if the agent didn't like it, he bloody well knew where the door was.

They hashed out the last few months as they polished off a bottle of bourbon and curry takeout. On Martin's end, he explained the trail of cryptic statements and dead bodies that led him to Houston, Texas. And tried not to stare at Bond's lower lip caressing the glass with thoughtless provocation.

"You believed two men with severe PTSD who didn't know your name and couldn't remember anything useful?" Bond said slowly, tasting each word in disbelief.

Martin scowled. "And a photograph. Listen, I wrote McCombs off as a mad squatter until my friend died looking him up. I took two facts away from that investigation. One, I was in Iraq and people I trusted were lying to me. Two, people were dying because they helped me, they were in Iraq at the same time, or both."

Bond made a _continue_ motion around a swallow of alcohol. He licked a stray drop off his thumb like a man who wasn't anywhere near drunk, but had certainly indulged to the point of laziness.

Martin couldn't tell if it was genuine or not.

The uncertainty was distracting. Just like his fucking mouth.

He pulled out a second bottle and served them both.

"My DCO supervisor, Gates, told me that forensics ran the photograph and it was fake. That was enough to drop it until the next time someone threw it in my face." Martin shook his head at the absurdity. For people that didn't want him to remember, they had loose lips. "There was a case tied to Verax Corporation and Arcadia Council. Verax is - "

"A military contractor." Bond interrupted. "Arcadia Council is an international think tank. I'm familiar."

"They're both headed by a man named Jason Shaw. He was also in charge of the Verax operation I infiltrated in Iraq. Shaw wants me dead or discredited. I'm the only one who knows what happened at Basra and I'm a threat to his reputation. He's the one Sonya and Gates were protecting me from."

"Does he know you're alive?"

"He does now. Gates hid me very well in the FBI. It didn't fall apart until I started to remember. They went after my family, and myself, and Shaw was kind to tell me about Basra before framing me for the murder of FBI director Bennett."

"Shaw coerced you into making that video." Bond murmured.

"Shaw manufactured my voice and likeness in that video," Martin corrected. "He just needed to capture and plant me in DC."

"The FBI analyst's murder doesn't fit." Bond said. "He was killed when you asked him to track down McCombs and you assume it's because someone didn't want you to remember, but no one fits that profile. Your," Bond grimaced. " _Wife_ and Gates kept you in the dark, but they wouldn't resort to unsanctioned murder. Shaw wanted you dead and wouldn't care if you remembered."

"There's a third party at play." Martin realized. Bond nodded grimly.

"We can't go directly to MI6. M's another problem we have to address. He's had you scrubbed from the records."

"We?" Martin said pointedly in disbelief. Bond ignored him and knocked back another shot, so Martin tabled that for now.

"I'm here unofficially and I'll have to go dark until we determine where M falls on the board. But I'm not alone. If there's a digital record, Q will find it."

\---

However he came about the habit, Martin was a people watcher. He'd always assumed that the FBI had trained the compulsion into him; it was one of his most valuable skills as a deep cover agent. Perhaps, though, MI6 was the agency responsible for his survival instincts. Martin could foresee a career that involved much, much higher stakes than uncovering terrorists on American soil. Trevelyan had probably been undercover all over the world, playing a hand in tipping over regimes counter to England's chosen interests. That was why he'd been in Basra, wasn't it? To find out what Verax was doing to destabilize world order.

Finding out that Saddam's WMDs were nearby was luck. Or unlucky, given that he sacrificed 400 men and his memory to keep the weapons out of the black market.

He suspected Bond was also a watcher. The blonde was too good to sustain eye contact, but Martin thought he could detect just when the MI6 agent glanced his way. The other man gave nothing away and Martin found that a bit disappointing, but unsurprising. That, after all, was how he'd treat an amnesiac old friend that might remember all his tells.

They were each struggling with something. Martin preferred solitude for processing the last few hours, but Bond was a quiet drinker, someone Martin found to be good company. And it was a pleasant change. He had been alone in Paris, thousands of miles away from everyone he knew and there was no guarantee he'd ever see Aiden again. He had no connections to MI6, no way of investigating his past without exposing himself to the public or the authorities.

Bond was also a handsome diversion. Martin rarely got to bed male targets. They were either deeply indoctrinated in America's puritan values or they were highly religious. The dark side of America ran under the language of weapons and fists, which suited Martin just fine. He didn't have the finesse for keeping bed partners happy long term. Give him a target and a desired outcome and he'd get the job done, creatively if need be. He liked betting with his life, riding the edge where reading a man wrong, failing to identify their weak points was a guarantee to certain death.

"Alec," Bond cut himself short. Martin wondered what expression he was wearing. "Martin," Bond tried again and Martin tried not to look so grateful. "I'm sorry," the agent said lamely, clearly unused to saying the phrase. "I'll slip again." He gestured like Martin as a whole was the problem. "You just-you look-" he sounded almost angry.

It touched a nerve. Martin's forehead throbbed and he found himself gritting his teeth. He wasn't going to fucking apologize for who he was. He lurched to his feet and rounded the table in two unsteady strides, his hands landing on Bond's lapels, the fabric crumpling under his grip. Bond let him drag his body to a half-standing position and even met him halfway as he attempted to use his mouth to show this fucking little shit of an agent exactly who Martin Odum was.

They drunkenly grappled for control, very nearly knocking heads as they pushed each other around, hands holding tight to muscle, moving north until they could grab at shoulders, neck, hair. Bond kissed with presumptuous confidence that Martin found insulting. He wasn't some _mark_ to manipulate.

Bond abruptly twirled them around and pushed Martin in his seat, sliding smoothly to his knees. His eyes were blown with arousal, and shuttered, but he was heading south and Martin stopped caring whether Bond was mentally present.

Bond only paused long enough to get a condom on him.

Martin sighed, his body already loosening in anticipation.

After weeks of heightened paranoia with only bourbon for company, he was looking forward to the full body lassitude of an excellent orgasm.

Bond knew exactly how to warm a man up using only his mouth. He made a game out of varying the suction and speed, applying well-timed interjections with tongue and teeth. Martin realized he wanted the other man to look up and he sharply inhaled, imagining slivers of dark blue peering through thick lashes. Bond had ridiculously long eyelashes for an earthy face.

Bond drew back to take a breath and choked. He gave a half-hiccup, half-moan and Martin felt a flash of alarm.

He quickly forgot about it as Bond doubled down sloppily and it was like a switch was flipped, the impersonal blowjob transformed into a masterclass. Bond focused on his head, repeatedly starting soft and tightening his lips like he was massaging the precome out of his slit. Goosebumps erupted and Martin growled with reluctant appreciation as sweat broke out between his legs and the small of his back. Bond flicked a look up and he must like what he saw, because he shivered under Martin's hands.

Then Bond tugged his trousers down and spread his legs as far as the fabric would allow. He didn't look up again and Martin felt like he had been reduced to his prick. But Bond paid lavish attention to everything below the waist, his hands finally in play and stroking skin with automatic confidence Martin thought he should find more frightening than his drunken brain currently allowed.

Bond squeezed his balls and let his teeth catch under the head, and Martin involuntarily clenched his stomach with a bitten back groan. He followed up with a particularly knowing swirl of the tongue on the glans that had Martin twitching before he could even register what he was seeing. He fisted his hands in Bond's hair and tried to keep his thighs from trembling as Bond's hands and mouth mercilessly and systematically took him over the edge.

He was still seeing stars when he pushed Bond away. He meant to do it hard, but intent didn't translate through the fog of alcohol and post-orgasmic rubberiness. Bond still easily let himself be toppled onto his arse.

"What the fuck was that?" He panted, trying to sound authoritative.

Bond's eyes did something too fast for him to catch, settling into lazy satisfaction. The blonde made a point to lick a spot of come off the corner of his lips. "Didn't enjoy it?" He taunted, not bothering to pick himself up. He settled into a provocative sprawl, forearms tucked neatly behind his head, and let his knees sway apart. Martin zeroed in on the bulge straining his jeans.

"It's optimistic to think I can fuck you anytime soon," he grumbled, fumbling with the condom, glad he currently couldn't care less about the mess.

Bond shrugged. "Ride me and we'll call it even."

\---

Bond woke up in extreme discomfort after spending the night on the floor. The evening before came back to him in patches, distant now that his higher faculties were back in charge. He remembered having sex, but it may as well have happened to someone else for all that he allowed it to touch him.

Martin was face down on the sofa. Bond congratulated himself on remembering. He'd slipped up last night; between inebriation and the sense memory of suckling Alec's cock, he'd lost himself. He was back in the past, getting Alec off quick and hard, really making him feel the line where the brain lost the plot between pleasure and pain. Just the way Alec liked their reunion sex.

Then he'd looked up and it was an older face, heavyset, wearing his Alec's expressions and reality washed over him like a bucket of cold water. He'd shivered and taken sadistic pleasure in using everything in his Alec repertoire to break this stranger apart.

Bond smiled, thinking of his victory. Martin was not Alec but his body certainly was. The knowledge sated something deep inside.

He rolled to his feet with a groan and stepped out into the early Parisian air, stepping into a defensible corner, out of street view. He quietly shut the balcony door.

The fall chill was refreshing after sweating out alcohol in his sleep. He lit a cigarette and idly scanned the street as he smoked. Q was going to be pissed he'd picked up smoking again and no amount of rationalizing would talk him down.

Q had unreasonable expectations on his health and longevity. James didn't think much of it either way. His body was a weapon, one that he always had in his arsenal, and he treated it as such. Weapons thrived under maintenance.

Weapons also broke.

One day, he would die or break past the point of usefulness and there was no point in preventing the inevitable.

The tension plaguing him finally broke into fact: the actions of two vehicles that caught his attention when he lit up.

When he arrived yesterday, there was a navy blue citroen parked across the street, five vehicles down. The third space down had been empty, save for a construction marker.

The citroen just drove away and a peugeot now sat in the barred space.

No one exited the car.

Bond puffed and watched until his cigarette burned down. He flicked the glowing red butt into the street and went inside.

"Wake up," he kicked the sofa.

Martin was alert and on his feet in an instant, going to his pistol and checking the magazine.

"Do you have plans for getting out of France?"

"Planned to take the Eurostar."

Not a terrible idea. They could lose any pursuers in the crowded train.

"Your flat's being watched. Not sure how long; the last shift was in place when I arrived." Bond reported. "We should leave. We can be in London in a couple hours."

"Come on, then." Gratifyingly, Martin was all business. He didn't stop to question Bond's statement or argue with the plan. "We can take the fire escape."

Then Martin gestured to him and all the air disappeared. The FBI agent went to the door and propped it open wide enough to inspect the hallway.

Bond took a belated breath. _He doesn't know what he's doing,_ he thought, tamping his discomfort. He retrieved Martin's bag anyways.

"What was that?" He demanded.

Martin looked baffled. "In america, they call it a wave." He spied his knapsack in Bond's grip and held a hand out. "Thanks. I was going to get that."

"No," Bond snatched Martin's wrist, only to have his own arm pinned behind his back. He blew his breath out in frustration and forced his muscles to relax. "The hand signal."

"Bond." Martin sounded fed up. "I've no idea what you're on about. This isn't the time."

Right. They were on a mission. And he wasn't Alec. It wasn't _safe_.

Bond pushed the conflict back under, below mission awareness. "Right. Let's go."

\--

Martin led them to the window at the end of the hallway.

Bond went first, Martin falling into a comfortable position guarding their rear. They held their weapons in hand, muzzles down. He kept his eyes open and alert the entire way down the metal staircase and down the alley, watching their back and trusting the other man to lead them to safety.

The alley was empty save for a pile of rubbish and a dumpster ten feet from the exit. As they passed the metal container, an arm shot out, knife glinting.

Bond had already dropped, head forward, into a charge. Martin caught the knife hand by the wrist, twisting painfully and loosening the man's grip. His fist was already burying itself in the man's cheek with a sickening crunch.

Below, there was a second crack as Bond broke the man's knee.

Bond rocked back, scooped up the knife, and rocked it forward into the man's ribs. The blade punctured flesh and muscle with the combined force of his weight and momentum.

They stepped back, not even winded, but they stared at each other in bewilderment.

The man had surprised them and now he was dead.

Bond shuffled through the man's pockets and came up with a .45 caliber and spare magazines. No identification.

Martin studied the face: middle eastern, with curly hair and patchy stubble. No one he knew.

"Ever seen him before?"

Bond pocketed the weapon. "No. American?"

Martin didn't think so. It was the clothes. He checked the tags and confirmed his suspicions.

Bond leaned over. "European. That shirt's Lebanese."

Martin took the knife. He fancied the edge and he tested the weight as he cleaned it off on the corpse.

"Should we go after the rest?"

Bond shook his head. "A rendezvous with Q is better idea."

"Made of magic, then, is Q? 'Cause you're really trying to sell him. What kind of name is Q, anyways?"

Bond finally smiled, a fond, crooked thing. "You'll like him." It was a pronouncement and oddly, it eased Martin's jitter.

As they let themselves be swallowed by the crowd, it occurred to him that not once had he looked at Bond, but not only did he know exactly where the other man was at all times, but he'd instinctively kept the other man protected with his own body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DCO - Deep Cover Operations, based in LA, run by Chief Nelson Gates. Alec/Martin was their best operative. 
> 
> _I still owe money to the money, to the money I owe  
>  I never thought about love when I thought about home  
> I still owe money to the money, to the money I owe  
> The floors are falling out from everybody I know  
> I'm on a blood buzz, yes, I am  
> I'm on a blood buzz  
> I'm on a blood buzz, God, I am  
> I'm on a blood buzz_
> 
> Is the total chapter count slowly creeping upward? Why yes, yes it is, it keeps growing when my back's turned. XD The rough draft is now 30k and I'm scaling the last mountain of writing.


	5. Q, meet Martin Odum

Chapter 5

It wasn't nearly as distressing as he'd imagined, waiting for the agents to arrive.

He didn't have the time for personal monitoring with all the missions in active status. He helped a pair of junior-senior field agents track the funds behind the Paris bombing and checked in periodically on double-Os in Austria, South Africa, and Columbia eradicating Quantum funded operations. R was working equally hard with the senior agents tracking a lead on the Lufthansa plane crash across eastern Europe.

The field agents were tired and had been away for weeks and months. They were going to need a substitute very soon. Q took care of poring over the homebound roster and selecting the best candidates for a hand-off.

Moneypenny eventually visited Q-branch at hour 40 for Q and 76 for R, meandering like a lazy panther in her heels, hands in her slacks, and an unimpressed expression on her pretty face.

"R, go home," Q ordered tiredly, hoping to pre-empt a lecture. "Get Nicholas to take over while the agents are lying low and your team processes the data."

Moneypenny quirked an eyebrow as if to say, _touche, but not quite good enough_.

"Q," she drew his name out like honey. "Who is your backup for this mission?"

"Mary," Q grudgingly admitted out of the corner of his mouth, eyes never leaving his monitor.

Eve gave him a smile full of shark's teeth and whirled around, calling loudly. Q suppressed an annoyed sigh, knowing better than to show either woman a sign of weakness.

In Portugal, his junior-senior team finished searching an apartment and deemed its owner a throwaway.

"I heard that, Q." Eve plucked the earbud out and tossed it to Mary. "Shift change, all's quiet on the western front, chop chop, tell Mary what she needs to know. I am driving you home."

"You are absolutely not!" Q automatically shouted, offended on his own behalf. Eve snickered and waved a hand permissively.

Mary listened attentively and gave him a verbal confirmation of the information, just as he expected all his techs to do. She really deserved the nickname top boffin and he didn't know what he and R would do without their capable, clever substitutes.

So, it was coincidence that he was home when James arrived. His front door opened with studied care and Q felt the hair on his arms rise. He was ready to call it a false alarm: James entered first with his no-nonsense stalk; right on his heels, matching him stride for stride was a handsome man with a thick head of dark blonde hair and graying stubble. James cupped his face and gave him his customary buss on the cheek as he passed, pausing long enough to let some of the tension fall from his shoulders. Wordlessly, James secured all the exits and sightlines. He moved quickly and efficiently, returning before Q felt the slightest hint of anxiety.

Q studied the two men. They weren't behaving as he expected.

James glanced at him and seemed to catch his thoughts. "Q, meet Martin. He was injured in Basra and he has amnesia," adding meaningfully: "He doesn't remember being Alec."

_OH_. Q fought to keep the dismay hidden. He'd been prepared for the emotional baggage from Alec deserting James and MI6. He had no idea how to help James deal with a stranger wearing Alec's face.

Next to him, Martin seemed to be struggling. "You're together," he finally accused, looking disgusted with himself. He looked from Q, to James' stone face and back again. "Full disclosure: we fucked in France."

Q burst into a bark of laughter, quickly suppressed as he reminded himself that Martin was not Alec. And Martin, on his own, wouldn't understand that Q had fully expected them to come back well-shagged. "James is a double-O," is what he eventually went with. "Our relationship isn't your business yet, but don't flatter yourself thinking you'll drive a wedge." He affected as gentle a tone as he could muster and kindly ignored the pain in James' eyes.

Martin looked at Q contemplatively, and Q wondered what pieces Alec's amnesiac brain were putting together and what the consequences would be. He didn't discount Martin's intelligence. Alec had been MI6's first choice for long term investigations. 006 specialized in creative thinking while maintaining an alternate identity. He could be pointed in a direction with the barest suspicions and he'd produce results all under his own power.

"No hello, 007? 'How have you been, holding up the fort?'" He directed the snark at James.

James lightened up. "You're the one person I don't worry about, love. But you're right. Let's confer. Any issues at MI6?"

"Of course not." Q sniffed. "I'm more worried about trouble following you." The agents laughed.

"Martin was exactly where you said he was..." James quickly summarized their time in Paris.

Q quietly digested the information. The hunting party on Martin's flat concerned him. Were they part of Verax, ordered to finish the job because Martin slipped past US authorities? What was to stop them from invading Q's flat?

"I need to lock the flat down." He glared at James. "That should have been our priority."

"Already done," James, unsurprisingly, had a tumbler in his hand despite the early hour. Q gripped his partner's wrist, briefly, transmitting his anxiety through touch. James flipped their grip and squeezed his fingers.

_Apology accepted._

"We need to know three things: Firstly, who put Martin under witness protection?"

"What do we know?" Q gestured for the men to follow him into his surveillance-proof office.

"Sonya said the CIA ordered her to take me from Germany and make me disappear. Gates, our handler and my DCO chief, said that his orders were classified. My identity was classified. Their jobs were to keep me from remembering and neither of them knew who issued the directive."

"Second," James picked up the thread, "we need to know who wants to keep him from remembering badly enough to kill an FBI analyst for investigating a homeless man."

Martin nodded. "McCombs was a Verax operative and he died for it. But I only asked Bobby to ID him from a security camera. He shouldn't have raised any red flags. Also, Bobby was a bystander; he had no connection to Verax and all the other victims did."

"Third, we need evidence to expose Shaw and clear Martin's name."

"Verax is practically a shadow government with its own version of the CIA and the army." Martin growled, discouraged.

"They may have resources, but so do I." Q said smartly. "I'll use every means in my disposal, legality be damned. I just need a place to start."

Martin looked at James for support, to all of their surprise. James recovered quickly and vouched, "Q can bring down governments with his technology and enough incentive."

"And I've had enough incentive since the beginning." Q promised.

Martin, overwhelmed, braced a hand on his hip and rubbed his stubble. Then snapped his fingers. "All Verax employees are tattooed with their ID number." He pushed his sleeve up and exposed the inside of his left arm. "And Rice said the US Treasury had evidence of Verax killing soldiers and stealing a pacification fund."

"I can start there," Q agreed. "This will take some time. I want to be absolutely thorough. "We'll want as much ammunition as possible to get Mallory on board."

"You kept touching that arm," James observed, disconnected, and Q's internal alarm resumed ringing, prompting him to scoop the both tumbler and severely depleted decanter out of Bond's shaking fingers. He did it as discreetly as possible, while Martin was occupied with pacing the floor.

"Let me see your arm," he called over his shoulder, shoving the glassware onto the windowsill.

Martin extended his forearm. "It needs an infrared camera."

"Not a problem," Q dismissed. "I build infrared into all my equipment. You never know when you'll work in pitch black environment."

Martin looked impressed.

He held still as Q pulled his arm under the scanner. Standing inches apart, Q could feel the heat and weariness emanating from the other man. Martin smelled of rough living, travel, bourbon and James - familiar post-mission scents - and Q's fingers ran over the fine blond hair of their own volition.

He caught himself and leaned back, embarrassed. Martin gave him that same interested, studied expression from earlier in the kitchen and Q returned the look with a tiny curl of the lip before focusing again.

"That identification number belongs to John Cameron," Q read out as a series of linked files populated his computer screen. "Oh."

"That was Alec's alias on his last mission." James confirmed from the sofa.

"John Cameron is currently implicated in several criminal acts, starting with the death of US soldiers guarding a convoy of money, stealing one billion dollars, and planning terrorist attacks on the US government."

"Jason Shaw used that," Martin's mouth twisted. " _My_ alias to hide Verax's warmongering activities. He's been changing the story since 2004 using me as a scapegoat."

"Our properly filed records will show that John Cameron isn't a real person." Q smirked with satisfaction as Alec's deployment documents were displayed. "Here we are. My predecessor, and Tanner's, were meticulous men. In August 2003, MI6 sent you on the trail of rumors that a newly established military contractor, Verax, was using shell companies to obscure illegally established mining operations and unsanctioned raids on abandoned Iraqi bases. MI6 was concerned that, with the US military narrowing down Saddam's position, Verax ultimately intended to interfere with the balance of powers and start another war.

"Your pre-mission evaluations are all here: psych, medical, marksmanship. You were only supposed to be under for four months, except that you got wind of their next target and requested an additional sixty days. No reason listed, but M approved it. After the oil rig was bombed, M reported you KIA."

Q firmly pulled the tumbler and decanter away from James again. The agent scoffed and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

\---

They were left in awkward silence. Damn James. Q consciously didn't rub the headache building behind his eyeballs.

His phone chimed, a message popping up: _Perimeter check. Stay inside._

Probably the best use of his turmoil, Q reflected ruefully.

Martin shifted, uncomfortable.

"You can ask," Q finally said.

Martin worked his jaw, and perhaps his thoughts.

"What's his problem?"

_You_ , Q thought, sadly. But it wasn't Martin's fault. It wasn't anyone but Jason Shaw's fault, really. Martin and any Basra survivors had been exposed to a fatal combination of combusting missile fragments, crude oil, and assorted chemical weapons. Martin was lucky to be alive and mentally sound.

He maneuvered his desk chair to face the amnesiac. "How much do you remember of MI6?"

Martin made a face at his careful tone. "None. The memories from Basra started coming back, thanks to Shaw. But nothing before the mission. I think I know him, though. Bond." He belatedly clarified. Q leaned forward in interest.

"I don't remember him." Martin's tone left no room for argument. "But I have...muscle memory, maybe. He's familiar and I, the _old me_ , is used to reacting to him. _With_ him." His voice grew soft and he struggled to find the words.

Q took pity. "You do know him. You have a long history and you've either trained or worked together since SBS which may explain the muscle memory." He paused, determined to word the next part as encouragingly but objectively as possible. Amnesiacs were an ethically tricky situation: inherently vulnerable and there would always be the question of coercion.

"You have a personal history with James," he offered, finally. "If talking to Shaw nudged your memories of Iraq, I think you should talk to him."

"Did you know me?" Martin rubbed the back of his neck in consternation. Q wondered if this was a new behavioral tic. "I think a lot about whether I was, I _am,_ a good man."

Q realized he couldn't possibly fathom what Martin was going through. The notion of being so completely _erased_ , the way M had the agent deleted from their systems, was horrifying and Q was suddenly grateful he had the foresight to keep it from being permanent.

Helplessly, he uttered the truth. "I don't know you, Martin. But I know James thinks the world of you; of Alec. You cannot be anything _but_ a good man."

Martin nodded jerkily and they cleared their throats, breaking the moment.

"The next step is verifying the US treasury's evidence," Q stroked his keyboard thoughtfully, grounding himself with his own weapons of war. "Last time I was in American systems, the treasury fell on the list of offices that didn't require extensive hacking. I suppose they don't feel it merits the same level of security they can afford to spend on the DOD and the Pentagon."

"If its employees are comfortable gossiping about Verax, they're used to being overlooked." Martin agreed.

"Damn Mallory," Q abruptly whispered, frustrated the older man had given up before doing a proper assessment. "What was he thinking? This is child's play."

"Who's Mallory?"

"The man we'll need on our side. He's the head of MI6 and right now, he wants nothing to do with you."

"Nelson told me I'd been disavowed."

Q nodded, wholly shamed as an executive of MI6. "I'll get to the bottom of it. I need to start visiting 'friends' and 'enemies'," he elaborated his plans to hack into select nations' intelligence agencies. Once I have a solid case, I'll bring M in."

"Can we count on him?"

"I think so. Disavowing you is strange and unusual behavior and I don't have all the facts. I have to give him the benefit of the doubt or I may as well plan a coup."

The medallion caught his eye. He handed it to Martin. "Take this. It's everything I found in MI6."

Martin shushed him, pulling a pistol out of his waistband. He stood stock still then ordered, "Stay here. Do you have security? Turn it on." He moved unerringly towards the office door, slipping out without another word.


	6. ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time, James, Alec, and Q were finally in the same room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The definition of a _**legend**_ :  
> A way of saying alias, a term used in US covert intelligence for a deep cover story. I mention it in this chapter for the first time. 'Legend' is significant in this story and for Martin's background in that he spent ten years in the US as one of its top deep cover operatives, with at least five entire false identities with extensive histories memorized. And he is so ridiculously good at his job. And then he learned Martin Odum was also a legend, fed to him by his handlers (his wife and his chief) after a "car accident" in 2004. The car accident that was also a lie, because he was in Iraq in 2004 - supposedly undercover for MI6 - caught in a missile strike that gave him head trauma.  
> Which leads to my fascination of crossing over these two universes. There's very little adjustment to be made (although I have a personal headcanon that Martin is closer to Daniel Craig's age than Sean Bean's in Legends). Alec could easily have existed in Craig!Bond's backstory, only he "died" before Casino Royale and spent the movies living as Martin Odum in the US.

Chapter 6

James paused on the door step to light a cigarette, ignoring his trembling. Damn sensible Q. Getting sloshed had gotten him through the first night and that was before Martin started channeling Alec at random moments. Like the hand signal in Paris, when Martin used their modified gesture language to request his pack. Then there was the ambush in the alley. And that split second at the flat when Martin hesitated until James vouched for Q's skills.

The last one wasn't the same kick in the teeth, but that had definitely been Alec's skeptical eyebrow.

His stomach twisted and he threw the stub away with a grimace.

Fucking Alec. Lost to amnesia and still haunting him.

Panic clawed at his neck and he stalked down the street, fixing his senses on the environment. He worried they'd brought the enemy to Q's door. A heavy weight settling behind his sternum replaced the tightness in his belly and he latched onto the familiar burden. Keeping Q safe was in his blood now, it was an imperative scored into his bones.

Q was competent, he was self-sufficient, he didn't rely on James. Privately, James couldn't care less. Q was his to defend and he had returned home with the prospect of clear and present danger.

It was his privilege to hold the perimeter.

He made two circuits without issue. Night had fallen over London and his strides grew looser under the cover of darkness. The crowd was thinning, foot traffic moving towards the shops and restaurants for supper or supper-related shopping.

He was almost at the intersection to the park when the fine hairs on his neck prickled. He smoothly crossed the street instead of turning right.

James went into the thicket and sidestepped behind a laburnum's thick trunk and waited. The park was empty, despite the early hour; he catalogued the quiet murmur of wildlife and distant traffic and let the sounds fade into the background.

The tree's overhanging branches eventually swished with displacement. James counted the delay from arc to bottom and estimated his opponent's height. He counted three pursuers, but couldn't use the same trick on the rest.

He pressed back as their shadows fell inches from his shoes and as a shoulder came into view, curled his hand on their forearm and wrenched the joint with a firm palm on their shoulder blade.

"Fuck!"

Bond brutally kicked him in the side and he glanced off the second advancer. Light filtering through the branches exposed a jagged scar across the man's thick neck. One-arm got swatted aside like an inconvenient fly.

Slit-throat swung his blade in a wide arc, neatly slicing through Bond's coat as he leaped back. Bond's boot skidded on the leaves as he entered Slit-throat's space: one punch in the solar plexus, followed up by a sharp thrust to the hollow of his throat.

Slit-throat gagged and crumpled. Bond had him in a wrist lock and dislodged the knife.

He juggled the weapon in his free hand for a split-second before plunging it down through Slit-throat's collarbone.

A club sailed towards him and he couldn't get his elbow up in time. The blow made his ears ring and James shook his head to clear it.

Billy Club and One-Arm circled him warily. Were they carrying? Why haven't the guns come out?

One-Arm was the easier target and more unpredictable if left alone. Bond flipped the knife in his hand and feinted towards Billy Club, leaving his body wide open. As expected, One-Arm fell for the trap. Bond avoided the punch and delivered an uppercut that knocked him out cold.

Bond charged Billy Club with an uncharacteristic roar, keyed up now and gagging for the promise of pain. Billy Club sidestepped him and smacked him good and proper with the baton, catching his cheekbone hard enough to split skin. His free hand went to his waist and emerged with a 9mm. Bond punched his gun hand on the forearm, loosening his hold.

The gun thumped into the darkness.

Bond crowded Billy Club away from his friends, protecting his head and shoulders with his forearms. He got a few hits of his own in and then they were grappling for control of the baton. Bond's fists were filled with rage. They collided with a tree trunk and he head-butted Billy Club into the bark.

They both shouted with pain.

Bond slammed the armed hand again and again. Billy Club struggled, kneeing Bond painfully anywhere he could reach. They collapsed to the ground and Bond reared up, one fist cracking Billy Club in the face and using his weight on the downward lunge to crush the man's windpipe with a stiff-armed choke.

He staggered upright, sucking in great lungfuls of air through his nose.

He knew he was a lot fucked up right now, bruised and scraped, vibrating with adrenaline, with his teeth bared and his hands balled into fists. There hadn't been enough of them, three just to break the gates open and give him a taste of blood. He had enough fury to fell Verax and Jason Shaw and he grinned with bloodthirsty glee as he realized exactly who needed to answer for his grief.

Alec had died and he was alive again, but he had no memory of James. Alec, in effect, was still dead and unlike in 2004, he had _names_.

He would have vengeance.

\--

Q gathered his wits after a split-second of outrage.

 _Stay here?_ _Not a chance._

Q pulled his .22 caliber pistol from its holster taped to the bottom of his desk and followed Martin. The other man gave him a sharp look.

"My security _is_ armed." He reminded the former 006. "If they're inside, you'll need backup."

They sidled along the left wall. Martin reached around the corner and yanked a black-clad figure into the hallway. He had an iron grip around the enemy's neck.

Shots fired and they threw themselves to the floor.

Q scooted past the fighting and hid behind the couch to lay down cover fire. He pictured the bullet trajectories and estimated they originated from the kitchen.

His flat wasn't large and had an open layout. His couch and flat screen were positioned perpendicular to the windows. His kitchen occupied the center of the far wall, bracketed by the television and the front door.

He fetched his mobile and tapped out a command. With a soft _pssht_ of decompressed air, the modified picospritzer ejected a series of sleep darts.

_Fsst! Fsst! Fsst!_

One dart hit the opposite wall with a tiny metallic thunk. The other two followed up with softer sounds of collision.

As he counted to ten, he snuck a look behind him. Martin had his opponent in a pin with one arm twisted painfully to point straight at the ceiling. The enemy wriggled, but he had absolutely no leverage without risking dislocation. Martin stilled the flopping with one knee on the small of his back.

_5...6...7...8...9..._

There was a loud thump, right on cue, followed by the sound of a second body falling over. Their weapons clattered loudly across the hardwood. Fortunately, neither discharged.

Q smirked arrogantly. "What was that, Martin? 'Stay here'?" He mocked.

Martin huffed, sheepish. "I bet you've got cable ties, Q. Mind if I borrow?"

They were blocking the hallway. Martin roughly hauled his captive over a half foot, enough room for Q to squeeze by.

Martin's watchful gaze was unnerving, but not frightening. Q sternly told his libido to stay asleep and subtly angled his hips away.

But Martin reflexively gave him that flirtatious up-down glance all agents utilized and Q flushed.

Unthinking, he reached out and lightly drew wayward bangs off Martin's forehead. Martin's expression eased up. They exchanged a crooked grin and Q finished edging past.

He adjusted himself in his office, still grinning foolishly at the empty room.

 _Focus_ , Q, he told himself. They were all adults, true, but amnesia was tricky business. Best not get too caught up while so much of Martin's life remained unresolved.

Once they had all three intruders trussed up and the third intruder dosed with a sleep drug, Q remembered they were missing someone.

He speed dialed James' mobile and frowned when it rang and switched to voicemail.

"Where is he?" Martin looked uneasy.

Q shook his head, concerned. "Voicemail."

He tried again. And again.

After reaching the default voicemail message three times, he went to his computer and pulled up the tracker on James' personal mobile. "He's west, by the park." He hesitated, thinking of the bodies in his flat. "What do we do?"

"We can put them in the toilet." Martin snagged the men with jagged, efficient movements. "How long until they wake up?"

"An hour, give or take," Q left the windowsill, where he had been inspecting his tampered security.

"Let's go then. Is he stationary?"

"Yes, he looks busy." Q studied the dot's minuscule, erratic movements. "He might have his own ambush."

"Right. Let's go save the arse."

\--

As he ran, Martin considered, for the second time in thirty hours, the stroke of good luck that his old self had talented allies.

Q wasn't a man that drew attention at first glance. His long hair and specs kept most of his face hidden. He dressed well, but unobtrusively. Martin thought he might make a good undercover agent with the proper training.

 _Good spy_ , he corrected himself. They were spies, Q and Bond, just with different skillsets.

 _I am, too_. He realized. _Was_.

Q was lightning in a bottle, empowering and awe-inspiring, a gift intent on constantly surprising you. He was strength in a wiry body, stamina that kept up with Martin's hard run towards the park.

In another time, another place, Martin would have liked that in his bed. Which of his legends would catch Q's fancy? Sebastian Egan, maybe, the reckless drunk too smart and too confident for his own good. Egan could sweet talk and snark his way into a nice tumble and his arrogance might incense Q into sticking around just to prove him wrong.

Q wanted him, too. He thought they might have an understanding, he and Q, that now wasn't the best for that kind of breather. What kind of arrangement would that be, anyways? Martin mentally shook the thoughts away. Why was he acting like he planned to stick around?

At his elbow, Q slowed down and several feet away was Bond, going the opposite direction. Martin felt a jolt in his belly that drew his skin tight. The Bond that left the flat had resembled a combustible wisp held together by sheer force of will. This Bond was a man on a mission, or a predator luxuriating over a fresh kill, a bright-eyed, smirking spectre of death.

"You look like hell, James." Q's scolding was a thin veneer over his concern.

"You should see the other guys." Bond's lip curled nastily. Martin wanted to kiss that promise of violence into an inferno.

"The flat was attacked. They circumvented my security with an embarrassingly low-tech solution."

Bond's face turned murderous and anxious all at once, eyes flicking Q up and down and glancing Martin's way. For the first time, Martin was awkwardly aware he was the outsider. He felt a twinge of guilt for letting Q get caught in the cross-fire.

"We're fine," Q quickly added. "Martin took one down and the sleep darts behind the front door took care of the rest."

"They're still alive? Good. I have questions for them." Bond looked at Martin straight in the face. "Interested?"

"Delighted." Martin smirked.

Q sighed in their periphery but Martin could already feel his eagerness rising. This was his first opportunity for answers since Shaw framed him for murder.

\--

The toilet barely fit five men, so Q found himself waiting outside. The mens' voices barely carried over the threshold and he gave up listening in. Instead, he brought his attention to the wreck in his flat.

His windows now sported several bullet holes. The bottom left hand pane was shattered and cleaned off, littering the carpet with broken glass.

His windows weren't made from commercially available glass. He'd ordered double paned windows treated with a special shatter-resistant glaze more than capable of deterring a high-velocity bullet.

He guessed, if they had done their homework, they used small-caliber armor-piercing rounds. The bullets had penetrated the glass and set off the sleep darts positioned along the point of entry, effectively rendering his security inert.

He rearmed his security and reset the tripped mechanisms from his computer. He was still in his office when his agents came looking.

"What did they say?"

"Not much," Martin said gruffly, annoyed. "They're throwaways."

"Assassins, but not untrue," James clarified. His face sported an angry line across the cheekbone. Q tugged it closer and inspected the wound critically. "It's alright," James added, dismissively. "Martin gave it a good seeing to."

Q narrowed his eyes. James' calmness didn't fool him at all. It was the quiet interval between thunder and lightning, where you found youself holding your breath in anticipation. His eyes had that look: the banked fire of slow and steady rage ready to combust at a moment's notice.

"It's fine." James repeated.

He had purpose again, Q surmised, and James always operated best with a goal in sight. He changed the subject.

"You must have something."

"They're INIS. Their orders were to take Martin in unless he came in contact with MI6. Then it was shoot to kill."

Q didn't care for that; INIS meant the Iraqi secret service agency. "What does the INIS want with us?" He waved his arm at each of them in turn.

"They're after me, mainly." Martin crossed his arms, body still angled to include them in his space. "They're after you in case I gave you sensitive information."

"On what?" Q stopped. " _Oh._ "

"Oh?" James quirked an eyebrow.

"I wager this has to do with the WMDs." At their skeptical expressions, Q insisted, "I know you destroyed everything Shaw found, and that may have bought you the last ten years. But what if that wasn't all of it?"

"They want to silence me." Martin said.

"And now, us." Q said grimly. "They won't leave any loose ends."

" _Aiden_." The naked fear in Martin's voice sent shivers down his spine. The older man looked unashamedly terrified, the whites showing in his green eyes. "I have to go home. I need to protect my family."

Q expected James to react negatively at the reminder. But the blond just looked ready to wreak havoc. "I'm still dark. If he's doing _that_ , I'm going after Shaw." His unimpressed emphasis betrayed his feelings hadn't changed.

 _Idiots,_ Q thought in exasperation. "Since I can't go with you, I insist you stay together. It makes the most sense."

James opened his mouth to protest and he barreled over him. "What are you going to do? Infiltrate Verax by yourself?"

"Could be," James muttered. "I can do it."

"No doubt. But Martin gets a choice. He's equally, if not more, involved than you are."

He turned to Martin, who still had an air of single-minded panic. "And how do you expect to protect two people by yourself? Take James, for goodness sake. Both of you, going in half-cocked is _not_ the answer."

"Fine." James said grudgingly. "As long as I get Shaw, I'll play along."

"Help me with my family," Martin offered. "And we'll make sure Shaw gets what he deserves."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearly halfway! The rough draft is (I hope) 4k from completion. What plot point(s) do you absolutely want to see resolved? (No promises, but I genuinely want the input).

**Author's Note:**

> Confused with questions? Have comments? I can discuss this crossover for an entire polar night. At the risk of inviting criticism, I’d appreciate a kind word if you enjoyed it.


End file.
